In For a Penny, In For a Pound
by LaSuen
Summary: House makes a bet about Wilson. Will Wilson play along? A three-chaptered story. [Complete]
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: In for a penny, in for a pound

**Author**: LaSuen

**Pairing**: House/Wilson

**Summary**: House makes a bet about Wilson. Will Wilson play along?

**A/N**: Takes place around 6 season, the guys live together. The fic is likely to be three-chaptered. Remember, reviews are muchly appreciated :)

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"No way House would do that," says Foreman, tilting his head on one side and smiling with complacency. Though, what actually there is to be complacent about, is hard to tell.

"Well, I think it's Wilson who'd never do anything of the kind." This is Thirteen's voice, a note of mischievous glee wandering there in its sound; a biro between her thin fingers thumping on the transparent table in House's office.

Chase's pupils are moving from one colleague to the other, his brow furrowed as though in deep concentration and an attempt to imagine minutely the whole scene. "I can't believe you guys would even think of…" He falters, his face wincing at the all-too-vivid picture in his mind's eye. "This is just sick."

"Come on, Chase, it's fun!" Foreman urges.

"And it's a win-win," points out Thirteen with a sly invisible fox on her lips.

"Yeah, it is," says Foreman. "Let's make a small character diagnosis on House. First, he hates losing; second, he loves games; and third, he won't refuse because refusing itself would mean losing. Here we go. We're out to win." Foreman spreads his hands in a gesture that calls to leave all doubts behind.

"Fine," answers Chase with a deep sigh, looking quite displeased. "I'm in."

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House approaches the door, whose surface greets him with the even gilded letters saying James Wilson M.D., and due to the fact that he never was a person who'd consider it worth trying to knock, House grabs the handle and pushes it down. He enters, his appearance solemn and slightly intimidating. Maintaining the same grave expression, House closes the door shut, steps into the room and halts right in the middle.

The man at the desk goes on writing. Or, possibly, pretends to go on writing. Or both. Wilson doesn't take the trouble to acknowledge his understanding that the content of his office was in any sense changed.

Seeing as his meaningful intrusion doesn't afflict Wilson that much he hoped it'd be, House referees a local mind battle between a couch and a chair and lets the latter win. So he limps to the seat in front of Wilson, sits down and gives his friend an intense look.

"Good morning, House." Wilson says in a fake cheery voice, then looks up and proceeds in his normal one: "Now, would you rather get out of my office, because I'm working."

House arches his left eyebrow, not tearing his glance off the paper, in which his friend's hand scribbles something that suspiciously resembles recurring zigzags in the form of a heartbeat wave.

"Good morning to you, Wilson!" he says, the tone of his voice unprecedentedly friendly. "And no, you're not."

The last bit makes no impact upon Wilson, who stays altogether undisturbed by House's scrutiny. Composedly, he reaches for the nearby folder and opens it demonstratively, barricading himself from House's curiosity. House starts beating time with his fingertips on the hook of his cane. Getting bored, he leans forward and whispers in a conspiratorial manner:

"Wilson! I'm not sure if you're aware of the fact that somebody here desperately craves your attention, so I thought I'd better inform you myself."

"Very astute," comments Wilson, lowering the folder and putting on the mask of coerced attentiveness. "What is it?"

House waits a dramatic pause, making a face of a buddy in distress. The short silence draws Wilson's eyes to him.

"I made a bet."

"And you came to me because…?"

"It concerns you."

"Allright," Wilson signs, putting the folder aside and clicking his pen shut. The expression on his face gets troubled. "Now I am concerned."

"Yeah," House nods. "You would be."

"Care to beam me up?" inquires Wilson.

"You must kiss me."

The tone of his voice being that ordinary and casual, House could've perfectly said 'You must put only two spoonfuls of sugar and one lemon slice in my tea cup'. Thereupon, Wilson even feels an impulse to inspect his writing desk in search of earlier unheeded cups, saucers and sugar bowls. No success there. Thus, Wilson clears his throat and looks at House as if the latter is mentally handicapped. That is to say, almost as always. House continues:

"Well, as an option, I can kiss you first, and then you'll just have to kiss back. We've already discussed this possibility."

"Discussed?" Wilson manages, clearly on the edge of a faint. To say the least of it.

"Yeah. You can thank Thirteen afterwards. She literally teemed with ideas."

Something that's painfully close to panic is written all over Wilson's face. He stares blankly at House, neither averting his eyes, nor blushing, nor speaking and nor even giving out any sign of awareness. Only his eyes run the gamut of emotions from utter astonishment to sheer consternation.

"Ideas?" echoes Wilson. "House!"

"Eider!"

"What?" asks Wilson in confusion.

"Ah, you meant me. I thought we were playing this word game."

"You were playing. I'm not playing anything."

"Come on, it's not that big a deal. We're best friends. It's not like I'm asking you to make love on Cuddy's desk."

Wilson almost twitches.

"Oh, let me see. That must be the core of the second bet you're planning to make?"

"Nah, haven't yet thought of the second one. But thanks for the tip, I'll bear in mind this ardent desire of yours."

Wilson chooses not to hear that. All of a sudden, the office room seems distant and far-away. He is wandering in the heart of the Sahara Desert, he's halfway through towards the Qomolangma Peak, he's on the raft in the center of the Laptev Sea. He doesn't really want to say what he says next.

"So, let me get it straight." No pun intended, thinks Wilson to himself. "What do you get from this?" He begins counting off on his fingers. "You get fun. You get money. You get undying attention for God knows what time. You get Cuddy pissed off. You get… Meh, wait a sec, why are we revolving around you? Let's see what I get," he feigns a hard thinking. "Oh, right! Nothing whatsoever! Now give me at least one legitimate reason why I should help you win this stupid bet?"

"Whoa, whoa! Who says 'nothing'? Who told you kissing me is no fun? You never tried it, after all! And this money thing. I was going to offer you half of it, that is to say, three hundred bucks," noticing Wilson's amazed face, House moves on: "Yeah, it wasn't so high at the beginning though, but I pushed it as far as I could. They are so innocently sure they are going to win. They wish." He smirks.

The extrapolation doesn't bear a fruit. House purses his lips, realizing that those abovementioned don't suffice to get Wilson persuaded. So, he speaks further:

"I saw this one coming. Now, my priceless gratitude granted, you can also have me doing whatever you say for three days."

Wilson raises his eyebrow in question. "And the reason I should believe you will is..?"

"House's word of honor," he answers solemnly.

"There's no such thing as your word of honor, House."

"Sure. That's why I've just created it."

Wilson's eyes absent-minded, he stares into the void, right through House. He's not sitting in his chair at his writing desk; he is in the wretched boat with tumbledown sides, reeling on the verge of the tsunami wave. He furls its tattered sails and lets it go of its own accord.

"For a week," says Wilson finally, and in the next moment cuts himself short. The mere idea of actually having House to do what he, Wilson, wishes has carried him a long track away, making him forget the essential condition of the bet, which was… Wilson shuddered internally.

"Gee! When have you become that possessive?" asks House with a jocund whistle, a radiant smile lodged on the curves of his lips. "And remember, your power over me does not extend to my patients' treatment. Of course, as long as you don't want all of them stone dead." He thinks for a second and adds: "Or ordinary dead. They wouldn't care less anyway."

A grave rational Wilson would never cave in. The words 'your power over me' resound in his head to and fro, back and forth, hither and thither. Lead us not into temptation. He'd never go for it. He'd never cut the deal. He'd never agree. He'd never consent to this. He'd never yield––

"So what are you saying?" House prompts, the corner of his mouth lifted up a little.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Hey there! People who left a review – I send you big sunny thanks! People who remained in a clandestine 'alerting' – come on! I value your opinions, tell me what you think of it! Besides, I haven't yet finished the third chapter, so I'm open to suggestions. Thanks to all of you who are reading it, anyways :) You're on the threshold of the second chapter.

So, here's the recipe. First, you take a pair of scissors and you make sure their blades are sharp enough to get the job done. Second, you place them between the index and third fingers of your right hand and check out their mobility. Third, your left hand grabs a puff of the air in this room where the absense of sounds renders the quietness almost ear-drum splitting, while all the dumb roars bounce off the floor and ceiling hither and thither. And now the final stage: you can cut the silence in shreds.

Sure, when there are no scissors at hand, you are bound to speak.

"House, pass me the remote."

"I already did. You're holding it in your hand, Wilson."

Oh, right. There it is, indeed. Who would have thought?

"House, make me a cup of coffee, would you be so kind."

"I've already been so kind. I've made you coffee twenty minutes ago, Wilson."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"You can make tee, then."

"Or I can compete in the Olympic games."

"House!"

"You know, you could call me Hovel, just for a change."

"You're grumbling."

"I'm not grumbling."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"This is pointless."

"No, it's not."

"Now you're just negating everything I say."

"No, I'm–– Wow. I can't really deny this, can I? Smart move."

So, where are the scissors?

"You said you were going to do whatever I ask you to do, House. Do you at least vaguely recall that part?"

"You're sure it was me and not by any chance my imaginative twin brother?"

"…"

"Okay, it was me."

"You know, you could try to be…"

"Polite?"

"Wouldn't even suspect you know this word."

"Being polite is not an action."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it is not. Being polite is an entirely ethical issue."

There is an expression of profound thinking in Wilson's face, which in a minute changes from thorough deliberation to unwilling mental turmoil.

"I got you. See? No way you're making me be ethical."

"Here I was thinking there floated at least a tiny straw of hope."

"House!"

"Are you talking to me or are you addressing the adjacent building over there?"

"First question, stop creeping me out by being in my bedroom in the dead of night. Second question, get the hell out of here."

"You do know what question is, right?"

Wilson makes an attempt to think.

"Fine. Go on, ask me to square two hundred and thirty four, and mock further."

"That's an option." House nods, gravely and pensively.

"What do you want, anyway?"

House stands in the dark, his figure blurry and indistinct, his eyes following the moonlight streak which pours through the window and hovers right above the smooth surface of the patchwork quilt of dark indigo color. It crosses the entire bed, divinding it in halves diagonally. The bright streak of light wants House to touch itself with his own fingers, as to make sure it is only light and that it wouldn't feel warm on his palm.

"I'm lonely."

"No, you're bored. That's the extent of what you can be."

House flinches internally at the tone of Wilson's voice that sounds matter-of-factly, which puts in his words an even more bitter candy than they already possess. All the same, they cling like true, and House shakes his head, wishing to drag them out of his mind.

"Can I stay?" asks he finally.

Wilson blinks at him, puzzled and unsure. He brings his left hand to his ear and rubs it in a sort of suspicious gesture, and as if checking the hearing mechanisms which, by the sound of what House might have just said, may as well have gone a trifle haywire. Wilson remains silent for the moment as House's question hangs up in the air, getting stuck on the hook of awkwardness.

"House, have you told me all about the bet or is it the part I'm not fully aware of?"

Wilson almost feels House get tense and irritated. House wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, his right hand makes a searching movement and grabs the empty air. Only now Wilson notices there is no cane attached to House's hand, which renders the whole picture somewhat unfilled as if something important is missing out there.

"Forget the stupid bet for now, will you?

Wilson arches his eyebrow: "Are you taking it back then?" Seeing as House rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, Wilson gets the point and sighs: "Alright, alright. For now. For how exactly 'long' now?"

House throws at his friend an intense and piercing look. "For the next amount of time you are in need to say 'Yes, House. Make yourself at home'."

"And by 'make yourself at home" you, of course, mean 'make yourself at bed'," adds Wilson in an unusually sarcastic voice which doesn't really suit him.

House frowns. "Now this was just mean."

"Hello, kettle. This is House. You are black."

"Okay, we're flying slightly off a tangent here," says House in a tired voice, his face still indistinguishable in the outer darkness. Wilson squints and stares at his friend inquiringly. House leans against the wall as he gives Wilson a reciprocal look of inquiry. The wall feels solid and cold behind his back.

"Can I stay?" he repeats, this time more quiet and sheepish.

When House walks into the hospital reception hall and sees Wilson standing near the desk with a sheet of paper in his hand, he thinks this is the most convenient opportunity; because the best way to lure Wilson into doing what he's supposed to do is to catch him unawares, not giving him time to think the better of it. After taking a rapid glimpse of Thirteen and Foreman standing somewhere by the elevator and Cuddy sitting at her office table through the window, House decisively makes for his friend, all things considered.

Wilson is looking down at his folder with his head lowered, so he doesn't notice it when House steps right in front of him laying his cane on the desk behind Wilson's back, one hand gripping his friend by his waist, his other capturing his neck and pulling the man closer. House feels Wilson freeze in his arms, apparently in deep stupor.

House's lips are rash and insisting on Wilson's as he pushes his tongue into his mouth, in hastiness, like they are in the middle of in-flight refuelling and in any second House's airplane would have to fly further up the sky, and the only time they have is this short now. Carpe diem. Wilson's body is motionless, the sheet of paper is no longer in his hand but drifting down to the floor, and by the accurate check of it, Wilson's pilot is deadly unconscious. The oncologist's aircraft gets wedged between atmospheric absolute pressure and House.

Seeing as what House really needs at the moment is to get any kind of reaction from Wilson – preferably, a positive one – he stops his fervent actions and lets go of Wilson's lips, busying himself now with licking a track down his friend's chin to his neck. In passing, he points out to himself that this feels not at all bad. Not at all. It could've felt even nicer if Wilson hadn't been so immovable and pitifully stationary. House's fingers stroke the back of Wilson's neck while he himself lifts his mouth up to Wilson's right ear and whispers:

"Now, Wilson, could you lend your hands in here? Literally. And get your tongue in my mouth, for God's sake."

Getting no response whatsoever, House makes up his mind or, to be perfectly precise, his lips to follow their path back to Wilson's mouth, this time gentle and soft, all the rashness and hurriedness put aside, only slight brushing of his lips against his friend's, as if in a gesture of silent invitation.

Wilson surrenders. He thinks that the faster he will begin to do something about the whole situation, the quicker it will end. Then, like in a slow motion, he lifts his hands and carefully places his left one around House's back, his other cupping House's chin. Wilson leans forward, closing that little distance that was left between them. He feels a smile on House's lips, but, no heed paying, he proceeds to kiss.

With the corner of his eye House catches a throng of people gathering around: some of them curious and smiling, the others indignant and reproving. One moment later he forgets about all of them and concentrates on the kiss, closing his eyes and stroking Wilson's neck again. He remembers that it's unnecessary but he just feels like doing it and he does it.

They don't let go of each other until there is an angry cough behind their backs. House pulls back, removing his hands but not tearing his eyes off Wilson's. He can't help commenting.

"Better than I thought."

Wilson fights down a smile. They both turn to face Cuddy who is warped with fury and red with resentment. Speechless, only her mad expression at hand, she tries to shake off everybody's attention and dissipate the crowd. Then she casts a fiercing glare at House and Wilson, more than ever eager to incinerate them right on the spot, right until there's a smell of burnt flesh and a smoke of two employees' bones melting.

"In my office. Now," she says in a scaringly quiet voice and storms off away from the hospital hall.

TBC

If you smiled at least once while reading this chapter, drop me a few words to make me smile too :)


	3. Chapter 3

This is the last chapter of this fic. I don't want to make any special footnotes down there, just keep it in mind that there will be one Hindi phrase with the clearest meaning, so it doesn't really need to be translated ;) Hope you enjoyed it all the way through as much as I did! Thanks to all of you.

The walls of the Dean of the Medicine's sanctum are like cinnamon cappuccino. The cedar writing table is like Chocolateburg, Switzerland. The scattered lot of pens, pencils and erasers are like spaghetti alla puttanesca. House is, like, hungry. Cuddy seems to be the only thinkable thing in the room he wouldn't consider edible, flesh notwithstanding. Oh, right. And there is also Wilson standing to his left in a mute participation. House swallows. Well, what else is new?

"Dr. House. Dr. Wilson." Cuddy acknowledges her acquaintance with her employees' names, somewhat expecting that these Dr's will make it sound distant and icy. She doesn't look like she's going to fret and fume, though. "Any hope you have a rational reason for your inappropriate behavior?"

House takes the floor.

"Well, there I was, sauntering along the hospital corridors with nothing whatsoever to fill my time with, and upon coming across Wilson in the middle of the hall, we've instantly decided to have a wild animal sex right there."

Wilson looks up at him with his rounded eyes and manages in a weak voice:

"An excellent way to put it."

"Thank you, honey! How sweet of you to say so." Simply beaming with mirth, House enjoys himself and is likely to be having a treat of life.

Cuddy gifts him a glaring glance. After getting her cake of satisfaction out of scowling the diagnostician through, she flips a few folders that lie disorderly on her desk and chooses the black one. She stands up and, not even looking straight at House, stows it hastily into his hands and says, still in an angry voice:

"New case. Off you go now. The conversation is meant for sane people."

House puts on an expression of someone who doesn't care what's going on around the place, like that of a marmoset which has found a banana peel and busied itself with fiddling around its parts. He turns and walks out, letting the door thump loudly behind his back.

"You seem to get off relatively unscathed."

"Rather."

"Has Cuddy said anything of interest?"

"Depends on what you mean by it. She was quite liberal with epithets."

"Are we irresponsible self-important jerks?"

"Yeah, that's pretty much the gist."

Scratching the back of his head in a somewhat unaccustomed fashion, Wilson sits down on the couch and tries not to look straight at his friend, who, on the contrary, is on the point of burning a hole in the oncologist with his penetrating stare.

"Hey, take a dekko." House nods in the direction of the table-edge where he's stationed the promised portion of the bet. Wilson takes a dekko, his face momentarily acquiring an involuntary crimson color and averts his eyes. Money makes him feel like… well, a whore. Would you be surprised. Not a particularly lovely feeling, you know. Looking like a threatened creature that is quite at bay with no ships and schooners to sail away from the grisly haven, Wilson pretends to get interested in his chalk white ceiling.

House sighs, watching Wilson fidgeting around his place as though he was asked to square a circle. Or circle the square. Depends on one's geometric preferences.

"Okay. Since you're not taking any advantage of your current, yet five-and-a-half-day-long auspicious situation, I'm going to help you out myself." He gets a firmer grip on his cane and puts himself straight. "Your unwilling to have me around here is almost palpable. I'm going to grab some snack."

He lingers by the door, turning back and sending his friend a well-thought anxious look. "In case you want to tell me something, you can tell Chase." He thinks for a moment. "In case you want to do something," adds House in a mystical tone. "Don't do it to Chase."

As soon as House is gone and the door is safely closed behind his back, Wilson winds up sitting in a peaceful and pleasant silence – a valuable delight now that he is almost always surrounded by House. Taking a furtive look at his table, he notices three banknotes and twitches at the ugly feeling. Second later, he already knows what to do with them.

"I see. You won't take your money. But, come to think of it… You put it under my ball?" House laughs, his expression smug and lofty. "Wilson! My other ball!.. Now I kind of feel that I can kiss you gratis."

House is impossible, thinks Wilson to himself, his face downcast, eyes attached to a list of dishes of the menu in the German restaurant. He doesn't understand anything. He knows that neither does House. But House thinks it's fun. The game is to choose something, without resorting to the Kellner's help.

Griessklosschensuppe, he mutters with his brow furrowed and his tongue tangled. Sure, he can guess what suppe is, but what's going to wallow in it? Griess? Grizzly bears? The next thing his eyes fall on is Leberknodelsuppe. He marks in his mind the words "berk" and "node". A soup with a node of berks floating in it? Blow your brain out.

Remembering that House was talking to him, Wilson looks up and says:

"I don't recall I've ever seen you this happy. One may wonder how the most petty things can bring a person to cloud nine."

"Are we in heaven or have you really washed all the dishes?" asks Wilson, gawking at the heap of shiny clean plates and mugs which are trimmed neatly on the drying rack.

"I do what I promised you to do." House answers simply and without any underlying messages, which makes it all strange alright. Wilson raises his eyebrow in question.

"No," he replies in a drawling voice and checks House from head to toe, making sure that everything is in place and there's nothing exceptionally wrong with his old friend. "You only do what you want to do, which brings us to the point… why do you want to do it?"

This sends a nervous vibe around the sitting room. House looks at Wilson and Wilson looks at House. Both are silent and uncomfortable. You've got to say something. Nolens volens. Not necesserily sensible, but at least by means of the English language.

"Maybe this is my new way of screwing with you," comes up House with the weirdest answer he can think of. He tries to blaze a trail through the shoal of thoughts that has gotten stuck in one of the weedy mazes of his brain. To no avail. House conjures his mordant impassivity as a backup reinforcement.

For a brief moment Wilson is at a loss for a remark.

"God, you are that messed up." He says finally, his head a bit askew.

"Yeah, they broke the mold when they made me."

"I wouldn't be opposed to get to know those "they" and advise them to reconsider their patterns."

Imagine two people that are tightly clad in spacesuits, one of whom is gravitationally unstable and drifting in the air without being able to stand still on the firm ground.

Wilson's eyes canvass the sitting room in search of an object that could become a discussion point and, no loot procured, his gaze halts right on House. The man gives him a quizzical smile.

"Kiss me already, Wilson, will you?" The prompting question hangs frozen in the spaceport of the room.

"Will you kiss me back?"

"Will you care if I kiss you back?"

"Will you care if I care if you kiss me back?"

House lingers on these words.

"What?" he says in confusion.

"Nothing," retorts Wilson. "Stop it, will you?"

"Stop what exactly?" House inquires, the tone of his voice amused and joyful.

"This." Wilson makes a vague gesture with his hand, moving it aimlessly in the air.

"Yeah," House looks at him mockingly. "Plain as a pikestaff. Second best explanation, though."

Wilson frowns, sensing a trick implied out there.

"What would be the first best?"

House takes a short limp forward and kisses him. For quite a minute Wilson remains torpid, but House knows him well enough to realize that it is nothing more than a mulish stubbornness. Slowly, for not scaring the will-o'-the-wisp away, he slides his caneless hand into Wilson's hair, his fingers grabbing a few fascicles to pull the man's head back. House breaks off the kiss and takes a swift breath intake before resuming his doings while he says quickly:

"And who's impolite now?"

Wilson's pupils are dilated, eyes flickering, and he doesn't want to respond. In both meanings. House whispers on:

"Giving it back has never hurt anybody so far."

"Well, if so…"

"Mai tumse pyar karta hoon."

"Me too."

"Do you even know what I said?"

"If you haven't condemned me to hell, then it's totally alright."

"Your answer hit the bull's eye, anyway."

"There you have it."

"Now the idea of making love on Cuddy's office desk doesn't seem that improbable, huh?"

"In for a penny, in for a pound!"

END


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